221B Drabbles
by BringOnTheWonder1997
Summary: Drabbles in the 221B format. I thought I might try some of these out. Feel free to review with ideas or PM me xxx I don't really write slash.
1. Brother

Beep. Beep.

The steady, annoying beeping sound was on repeat, both aggravating and reassuring – Sherlock was still fighting, still alive.

He was lying in the hospital bed (private, of course) pale and cold – but not deathly cold. Not yet.

But nearly.

Holding the motionless man's limp hand was Mycroft, who's usually expressionless face was showing his despair, not quite hidden from the world he deduced so easily.

He sighed. "How could you do this to yourself? How could you let it come to this? The slow and steady destruction of one of the most intelligent men on the planet due to drugs. _Why do you do this to yourself_?"

As expected the unconscious man didn't reply, but remained limp and still. Sherlock's face, even in unconsciousness stayed cold and hard, and Mycroft knew that if you lifted one of his eyelids his eyes would be intelligent, sharp, piercing, deducing almost everything about you in a moment.

The only two sounds in the room after Mycroft's impassioned outburst were his heavy breathing and the steady beep of the heart monitor.

It had been the only sound for the last day, not even the doctor's entering the room except for necessity – something about the two cold men frightened them without them even consciously realising it.

"But, no matter what, you're still my brother."


	2. Bucket

The two kids smiled. Smiled. At Sherlock Holmes. Freak.

And he smiled back.

Sherlock Holmes smiled at a group of young children and patted them on the head – and they seemed pleased by his attention and, indeed, seemed to expect it. It was a _regular_ thing for Sherlock to smile young children and not scare them into a heart attack.

They had helped him with his case (never before had Lestrade thought about using children on their cases – they weren't that heartless) without inspiring the anger that normal people stoked within the freak.

They had adored him.

And when he looked at them he actually had seemed to care, to care about_ them_. The affection was guarded but there. It was only because she'd known him for so long (much longer than she liked) that she could tell the difference between hidden affection and true coldness.

As much as she hated seeing the coldness, the casual melting of the ice had scared her – Sherlock had feelings, felt like everyone else (just hid it infinitely better). It might actually have hurt when she called him a freak.

But as daunting as that was, it was definitely less disturbing than the thought of Sherlock with kids.

Seeing that image again inside her head, Sally Donovan vomited into the nearest empty container. A bucket.

_Not too sure about this one. My friend (PoppiKaur1910) gave me the prompt whilst we were sitting bored in physics. First thing that popped into my mind – I'd recently been reading Ulura's The Irregulars._


	3. Beep

_This could be interpreted as slash but it wasn't intended that way. Read it whichever way you want._

This could not be happening John Watson insisted. It would not be happening. Not if he closed his eyes and imagined he was somewhere else. It would all be a bad dream, a nightmare.

But just like in Afghanistan it didn't work.

The nightmare was his reality, the horror every waking moment, every single heart beat that passed, the steady tick-tick of the clock as seconds passed by in that solitary white room. Seconds that could not exist because the inconceivable, the unimaginable, had happened.

Denial.

That was what this was called. His therapist had called it one of the five stages of grief. He called it hanging on – if he accepted it Sherlock would truly be gone. If he accepted it he would start to move on. Start to forget.

He refused to forget him; that amazing, impossible, infuriating man.

Never.

And his bloody therapist could call it denial or any other damn thing that she wanted.

Sherlock was not gone.

The world could not exist without Sherlock, couldn't function. The Earth may revolve around the sun but his world revolved around Sherlock, living for each slight twitch of his lips, each amused glint in his eyes.

And so the world ended with neither a bang nor a whimper but with the tiny absence of that once solidly dependable beep.


	4. Bang

"Shhhhh."

"I am being quiet."

"You are breathing rather loudly." Sherlock agreed with John – Lestrade was breathing rather noisily. And he was the police officer. Then again John was used to these kinds of tactics from Afghanistan and as for Sherlock... as Sherlock said, breathing's boring.

And as if Lestrade was reading John's mind, he said, "And unfortunately for you Sherlock, breathing is necessary."

The three of them were hunting an insane mass murderer who had been disguising himself as a taxi driver.

It seemed all types of people read John's blog.

The murderer had been cornered at the end of the alleyway and stopped before drawing a gun.

There was the sound of a gunshot and a long moment of silence. Lestrade and John looked at each other, assessing the other, to check they were alright.

The bullet had missed.

Only it hadn't.

In the confined alleyway, it had hit the one person that they had thought it never would.

Sherlock fell to the ground heavily.

Blood pooled all over the floor.

Sherlock's eyes were vacant.

He was dead.

But he couldn't be – the world was incomplete without its best detective. The world would fall due to a wanna-be criminal mastermind.

And so in a darkened alleyway with a doctor and a police officer, the world ended with a bang.


	5. Book

"Bang!"

John jumped.

"Bang!"

Seconds after the first blast came the second but this time John was unaffected – he was used to the sound of gunfire. He shot a despairing look towards the floor.

"Bang!"

With an exasperated look he went down the stairs, his leg having given him no more trouble since he'd moved in with Sherlock. He'd always known the limp was psychosomatic. How strange it was that the threat of imminent danger was what caused it to cease, despite the fact that trauma had caused the limp in the first place.

"Bang!"

Sherlock really was taking his frustrations out on the wall. The living space of 221B, mainly inhabited by the irritating and genius consulting detective, was a cluttered mess. The kitchen looked more like a bombed science laboratory than usual, body parts strewn about the work surfaces. Random and indecipherable papers from past cases littered the floor.

"BORED!" Sherlock shouted, now that he had an audience, firing the gun again. John was surprised the neighbours hadn't complained.

"Watch TV?"

Sherlock threw the doctor a dirty look at his feeble attempt.

"Solve a case?"

"I would if there were any." Sherlock's voice was dry.

"A cold case?"

"Nothing of interest." John was beginning to get exasperated.

"_Actually_ do the shopping?"

"Dull."

"I don't care! Try reading a book!"

_Not too sure about this one. Please tell me what you think xx_


	6. Balloon

It was quiet.

John was actually putting himself through the hassle that came with trying to host a surprise party (a surprise _anything_) for his flatmate. If Lestrade had been tasked with occupying Sherlock for the last few hours, there would have been no surprise. And probably no party – Sherlock wasn't one for partying.

Luckily Mycroft was in charge and he was one of the few capable of hiding things from Sherlock Holmes. Most of the rest of them were dead.

Most likely Mycroft had invented a case of serious importance that he couldn't solve and so he had hoisted it off to his younger brother. Sherlock probably wouldn't shut up about it for the next month and a half.

It would take more than a birthday for John to willingly subject himself to that.

The flat was nicely decorated and, for once, was tidy. The floor was actually in sight – all of Sherlock's case notes had been neatly tidied away. Balloons and streamers lay around, child-friendly fire hazards, and glasses of champagne sat on the mantelpiece.

The door slammed shut.

No one bothered hiding – Sherlock had almost certainly already deduced who was in the flat and why anyway.

Someone stomped moodily up the stairs. The door opened.

Sherlock's face was incredulous. He was looking at the yellow smiley face balloon.

_I think I might do a sequel to this one in Sherlock's POV. Please review if you read!_


	7. Birthday

_This one is kind of Sherlock's POV of the last drabble xxx_

The woman had been killed by her girlfriend's jealous ex-husband who blamed the dead girl for his wife's change in sexual preference. He was still in denial about his own homosexual feelings and so had killed his wife's girlfriend.

Sherlock Holmes couldn't believe that he had been dragged out of Baker Street for _this_. John had actually made him take this case – apparently the thought of 'getting one over' Mycroft was supposed to be an incentive. Even though he wasn't actually 'getting one over'.

Mycroft might be good at fabricating cases but John couldn't lie convincingly to save his life.

He called a taxi from the crime scene – the crime scene Mycroft had constructed. He half-heartedly hoped that Mycroft hadn't killed someone in order to keep him occupied.

That wouldn't be good.

And if John found out he would be insufferable.

He slunk into his taxi, frowning. He would not enjoy the event ahead. "Baker Street," he said with a dark scowl on his face.

A birthday party. A surprise birthday party.

Why had John decided on _that_?

The taxi drew up outside 221B and Sherlock tossed the money at the driver. _This_ one wasn't a serial killer.

He slammed the door open and stormed upstairs.

There was a _smiley face_ balloon.

He was not happy. Not at all.

"Happy Birthday!"


	8. Band

John had only recently moved into 221B Baker Street. Despite following him around London and shooting a man for him, he didn't really know Sherlock at all. The detective still had the ability to surprise him considerably.

He'd woken up in the morning, the scent of sausages wafting up the stairs. He'd dressed as quickly as he could and made his way down the stairs, still amazed he wasn't limping. He entered the kitchen expecting to find a cheery Mrs Hudson at the stove. Instead he found Sherlock.

Sherlock. _Cooking. _(And by the smell of it the food was edible.)

John about died of shock.

Sherlock had actually cleared the surfaces of his experiments. It was the first time John had seen the kitchen this clean. "You can cook?"

Sherlock turned around and threw John a look.

"You can cook _real_ food?"

The tone was scathing. "No, I can cook _imaginary_ food."

"What else can you do?"

"I speak French." His tone was uninterested.

"Anything else?"

"I can play guitar. And ride a motorcycle." Sherlock relished the look of surprise on John's face. It was so amusing to put it there.

"Why?" His voice was curious and cautious.

"I wanted to."

John sighed with relief. "I thought for a minute you were going to say you were in a rock band."

_Bit random. I wrote this after a psychology exam._


	9. Better

There was rioting outside. People were aggressive and their flight or fight instincts were thrumming and these people weren't running. It was also raining heavily.

And Sherlock and John were trapped inside Scotland Yard. Locked in a small room with Anderson, Donovan, Lestrade and Dimmock.

Someone was going to die.

"I can't see why you won't let me leave," Sherlock said, again trying to reach the barricaded door.

Lestrade turned to Sherlock, "You almost get punched daily when people aren't rioting. I'm not sending you out there now."

"Please do," Donovan muttered.

As if a cue, the shouts and screams grew louder. There was a smash. "There goes _that_ window," John muttered, feeling safer inside the Yard than outside it despite his military past.

Dimmock came out with the first helpful comment of the evening. "Shouldn't we be out there helping?"

None of the others found the idea appealing; aside from Lestrade (who was too nice) and John (whose soldier instincts told him he had to protect civilians, despite the civilians doing the damage.).

"Why would we do something as idiotic as that?" Sherlock's tone was snide.

Lestrade sighed.

There was a quick flash of light before the room went pitch black, the computers whirring to a halt.

"A power cut," Sherlock snarled sarcastically. "Well this just _can't_ get any better."


	10. Behaviour

There was yet another drugs bust taking place at 221B. Sherlock was becoming increasingly annoyed with the constant interruptions into his experiments. The last one had been completely destroyed by the police wandering in and fiddling. He scowled yet again at Lestrade as John tried, to no avail, to keep the officers out of his room.

Lestrade was standing in the living room looking bored and faintly amused. Anderson was sifting through the papers strewn over the ground.

"Do you ever put these in any kind of order?"

Sherlock retorted sharply. "They _were_ in order."

"What?"

"I suppose someone with such a low IQ couldn't tell the difference."

Dimmock lurked in the doorway, his first time inside 221B. He seemed apprehensive to enter, both looking at the state of the flat and knowing Sherlock. There was a myriad of other officers hovering around, poking into _his_ experiments and ruining them.

Just another reason to hate Scotland Yard.

Donovan rushed in looking appalled. "There was a head!" She had the attention of all of the officers. "In the fridge!" Everyone else was looking nauseous, but not particularly surprised. "A head in the fridge!" She was almost hysterical.

"It's an experiment."

"It's in the fridge!" Her voice reached an unmatched pitch.

"Spare me your dramatics! I haven't got time for this hysterical behaviour."


	11. Bear

_This is a bit random but I got the prompt from a friend on Sunday x It should have a sequel – probably up by Saturday xx_

They had just gotten out of yet another dangerous situation alive. As regular as this was becoming, John's nerves were still wired. It was a feeling he'd become accustomed to in Afghanistan. There, he shot people. This time he decided to calm his nerves using a bottle of whiskey.

This made him very drunk and unpredictable.

And likely to say something stupid.

"You're like a dolphin."

Sherlock, who usually ignored John when he was like this, actually paused at John's random and absurd statement.

"You're scarily intelligent, protective when you want to be, bloody vicious and have an amazing sense of direction."

Even Sherlock wasn't quite sure what to say.

"You're also really loud. Most people can't hear dolphins so that's a bit like when they can't hear what you're really trying to say – when you're not insulting them."

Sherlock actually tried to take the bottle off John.

"What am I?"

There was a brief moment of silence within which Sherlock firstly considered whether to answer his question (he concluded yes, John was likely to become increasingly annoying otherwise) and secondly decided upon an answer to the question.

"What am I?"

"I have considered many animals to describe you as, but I then realised there is only one I could use."

"What am I?" John was whining now.

"You're a bear."


	12. Bat

_This is a follow on from the last one xx Please read and review!_

There was a moment of almost awkward silence, the kind that was normal around Sherlock, as John tried to process Sherlock's announcement through his alcohol induced haze.

"A bear?"

"Yes." Now Sherlock was looking at _him_ oddly.

"A _bear_."

Sherlock, displaying his usual attention span (similar to that of a two year old), began to flick through the papers on his desk.

"Why a bear?"

"Loyal, loud and as you ever so eloquently put it 'bloody vicious'."

"A bear?"

"You've even got the mama bear protectiveness," Sherlock smirked.

John scowled.

He now wanted to change the subject before Sherlock deemed it important enough to actually remember.

"Mycroft?"

"A house cat. A big, fat, pompous, luxury house cat. Thinks they're the top of the house; looks like they've been smacked in the face."

John couldn't disagree. He didn't particularly want to.

"Lestrade?"

"A dog. Annoying and persistent. Most of the time annoyingly persistent."

"And loyal."

Sherlock actually appeared to be getting into the conversation and spoke first this time, "And Mrs Hudson?"

John thought. "A rabbit."

"Soft, annoying and far too nosy. Donovan would be a peacock. Obvious and thinks she's far more impressive than she is." Sherlock spat the next name. "Anderson. Dark, depressing and cowardly."

"Looks like Severus Snape on a bad hair day. He would definitely be a bat."


	13. Boycott

"_What_ is going on?"

"I'm not quite sure. It looks like a riot," John replied sarcastically.

"It is interfering with my experiments."

"You mean your sleep."

"No. My experiment."

"Sherlock you were sleeping. Admittedly for the first time this week. As a doctor I really should be persuading you to sleep more often. And eat at least once a day."

"I was experimenting how deeply someone could sleep in _complete silence!_" The last two words were aimed out of the window. Almost in retaliation, the noise from outside grew louder.

"How can I be expected to work with all of this racket going on?"

"I don't think you're supposed to."

"What's the point of _this?_" Sherlock asked, waving a hand out of the window.

"I'm not quite sure."

Another loud shout came from outside and light flared up outside of the window. Sherlock strode towards the door.

"Where are you going?"

John received a pointed look.

"You almost get punched on a daily basis on a normal day. You're not going out there!"

A thunderous smash echoed.

John felt the urgent need to distract Sherlock before he went outside. "I feel sorry for Lestrade though. Scotland Yard will be hell."

Sherlock looked delighted at the trouble this would be causing.

"If it's giving Donovan hell next time I'll lead the boycott."


	14. Blood

"No!" John was gasping breathlessly, running towards the hospital. Sherlock was still falling.

The actual moment of impact was obscured by a large truck, which moved away a few seconds later. Even as he rushed ahead, he was knocked back onto the ground by a bike, barely noticing the fall. He stumbled forwards and fell to his knees beside Sherlock, feeling desperately for a pulse - strong, weak and threaded, anything at all.

There was nothing.

He held onto Sherlock's wrist tightly, tight enough to hurt. He should flinch. There was nothing.

But Sherlock was, well, Sherlock. He didn't flinch at little things like pain or stop for small things like sleep. Sleep was boring.

After a few seconds that could've lasted years a group of doctors and paramedics swarmed the scene. John breathed heavily as kind fingers slowly prised his from Sherlock's wrist.

Within ten minutes John was on the ground, a shock blanket wrapped tightly around him and a comforting hand squeezing his arm.

People rushed in and out of the hospital with emergencies ad concerns and people to visit, unaware of what had just happened. Sherlock's body had been taken gently inside.

He had been declared dead at the scene.

And through it all John sat rigidly on the floor staring at the sticky pool of crimson blood.


	15. Biology

Somehow, he didn't know how, John had ended up down the pub on a Friday night with Scotland Yard. He supposed it was easier than finding a date - they all knew exactly where he was going should he have to excuse himself suddenly and without explanation.

The conversation had moved from the day's exploits, to Sherlock's most recent exploits, to how much of an idiot Sherlock was, to how sorry they were for John pitting up with him, to how his parents put up with him, to what he must've been like as a child, to school.

"I always quite liked maths,"

Donovan said, several other officers agreeing.

"My favourite was chemistry," Lestrade said, Dimmock nodding in agreement.

"I really lived Health and Social."

Health and social? Anderson had then proceeded to go into forensic science. He received looks that likened him to an interesting insect.

John interjected with, "I lived biology. It's who I became a doctor. The army bit came later."

"What about Sherlock?" Lestrade asked.

"Why are you asking me?"

"You know him better than the rest of us. Even if we've known him longer."

"Well, I'm not quite sure. If I had to hazard a guess - and you know how hard that is with Sherlock - I'd say biology as well.

Lestrade nodded. "Definitely biology."


	16. Best

**Sorry I haven't updated this in ages! I've kind of lost my muse for Sherlock but decided to post this anyway - especially now they've postponed series 3. Please read and review.**

Sometimes Lestrade thinks he's just dreaming. That this is just some sick, twisted nightmare and he'll wake up and find Sherlock annoying him at the Yard, verbally sparring with Anderson and Donovan (and soundly beating them). He'll be messing up the crime scenes and bringing civilians onto them, never mind that Doctor John Watson was the best thing to ever happen to him.

Then he blinks and realises that he isn't going to wake up, no matter how much he pinches himself - and he's got the bruises to prove it. Sherlock is dead and never coming back.

He wasn't a fraud though, Lestrade knows that much. Know that he isn't being pressured by his superiors he knows that the genius that was Sherlock Holmes cannot be faked, not for anyone.

And he hates himself because Sherlock was always right, except for now when he's wrong because everything has _gone_ wrong and it's all Sherlock's fault - so for once, just this once, Sherlock is wrong, even when Lestrade wishes with all his heart he were right.

So he places one hand against the coldness of the tombstone and promises to watch out for Doctor Watson and Mrs. Hudson and says he's sorry for not believing in him. He tells him he's a good man.

He tells him he's the best.


	17. Bronze

"Sherlock?" John slurred.

"Hmm?" Sherlock replied curtly, not really paying any attention. John tended to act even worse when he was drunk and Sherlock just couldn't be bothered to deal with people or their oh-so important social customs right now.

"Who's your best friend?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. John must be _really_ drunk for him to have asked that.

"Who says I have one?"

John pouted slightly. "I thought _I_ was."

Sherlock nodded condescendingly. "Of course you are."

"Who's second?"

Sherlock ignored him, instead going back to...whatever it was he was doing. It might be solving a case but it was as equally likely to be some of Mycroft's stolen paperwork what with how incredibly dry it was.

"Mrs Hudson?"

"Is our landlady, as she is so fond of pointing out."

"So loves you though. And you threw a guy out of the window to protect her. Mycroft?"

"Is my brother. And an idiot. And I would've done the same to any person attempting to invade our flat. Mrs Hudson had nothing to do with it."

"You didn't try to throw Irene Adler out of the window."

John must be really_, really_ drunk to bring that up.

"Mrs Hudson comes in second then." John seemed to realise he'd stepped on a landmine in his drunken stupor. "And Lestrade gets the bronze."


	18. Banana

John was of the opinion that Mrs Hudson was more like their mother than their landlady (despite her constant protests otherwise). Lacking in family, with the exception of his alcoholic sister Harry and sometimes Clara, due his both his parents deaths, it was really quite nice to have someone parental looking out for him.

She certainly seemed to think she was their mother - made them biscuits and cakes, and told them off when they acted inappropriately (Irene Adler's text alert noise, anyone?)

_Sherlock_ acted like a mother hen around her, fiercely protective of this woman who cared for them so strongly - such as when Mycroft had dared to shout at her. John had heard Sherlock's reproachful tone and silently applauded personal growth. The intruders who had dared to enter the flat also sprung to mind - Sherlock had throw one out of a window to protect their elderly landlady for daring to lay a finger on her.

John thought she reminded him of his own mother, watching out for them and scolding them when they got into trouble, worrying when they were out late (which, with Sherlock, was quite often - crimes scenes to see, murders to investigate).

She certainly _acted_ like their mother, when she was making cups of tea and fondly calling Sherlock (resident genius) a banana.


	19. Baby

"I can't believe this is happening!" John was practically hyperventilating. He looked ready to go into shock, and under his usual calm and cold exterior, Sherlock looked ready to join him.

Mrs Hudson cooed.

it seemed that Sherlock and Irene had decided to have dinner rights after Karachi. Or at least Sherlock hoped that was the reason as to why Irene (of course it was Irene) had decidedly dumped a baby on their doorstep with a note proclaiming her name was Sophia Holmes.

Mrs Hudson cooed again.

Sherlock stomped upstairs.

John burst into hysterical laughter - wait until the Yard heard about this! Or even better - Mycroft!

Sherlock was upstairs, attempting to look composed, despite being even paler than usual - if that were possible.

John sat next to him and patted him fondly on the arm.

"I can't take care of an infant!"

John nodded. "I know. You can barely take care of yourself - and that's with our help."

"What was Irene thinking?" Sherlock hissed.

"I don't know. But she's your responsibility now."  
>Sherlock looked up hopefully. "I don't suppose it's too late for an orphanage?"<p>

John poked him in the side. "You're not giving her up to an orphanage. They wouldn't know what to do with her!"

Sherlock groaned. John laughed again. Sherlock Holmes with a baby!


	20. Broken

Sometimes Molly Hooper hated herself.

She'd helped Sherlock when he'd jumped off the roof of St. Barts. She'd _saved_ his life. And she couldn't tell _anyone_.

She couldn't stand seeing the effects Sherlock's death had had on the others. Sherlock didn't even seem to consider the other's feelings when he'd jumped. Molly hated how little he valued himself - how little he apparently thought they'd miss him.

It was Sherlock Holmes.

You couldn't know him and _not_ notice when he was gone.

Lestrade had been fired. Immediately after the 'suicide' Lestrade hadn't stopped saying that Sherlock was innocent, that he was a genius, that he was _right_ to let the younger man work on cases. His superiors hadn't liked that, even if the papers had.

Mycroft - whom she'd only seen a few times, also knew that Sherlock was actually alive, but was pretending to be the grieving brother, even in spite of his usually cold demeanour. Molly couldn't really tell the difference.

Mrs Hudson hadn't stopped crying for the last three times Molly had seen her, having loved Sherlock like her very own son.

John, though, John seemed to be barely holding it in, keeping it together by a single thread. He reminded her of a soldier - and then she remembered he actually was one.

John Watson was broken.


	21. Back

Molly hates this.

Sherlock has jumped off the roof off St Barts and feigned his own death. And then he expected her to keep quiet about it. He has spent the last few weeks on her moth-eaten sofa, dying his hair various colours and recuperating from the fall - which_ still_ happened, even if there were safety measures implemented.

He stays in her flat and she's already had to order a new toaster and possibly a whole new set of cooking appliances - she only knows half of what he's put into her saucepan, and what she does know isn't sanitary. There is something set up in her bathroom that she almost tripped over the first time she came home from work after the fall, drained at seeing the others and pretending that she's sad as well.

The day he leaves, he hugs her. It is only the second hug he has ever given her - the first being at that disastrous Christmas party this year, that she'd very much like to forget about.

He thanks her. And that might very well be only the third time he's done so in the last seven years of knowing each other.

She tells him it was nothing. She can't decide whether or not she was lying. Not yet.

He leaves without looking back.


	22. Bed

Sherlock was a genius. He was above things that troubled mere mortals like emotions and feelings. And sickness.

Only he wasn't.

Right now, Sherlock Holmes was ill. He was also being infuriating (which he was good at).

John was, after all, a doctor and had sent him to bed to recuperate and sleep but every time he turned his back the curly haired self-professed sociopath found himself elbow deep in the microwave with yet another of his obscure experiments.

Frankly, it was irritating John to no end. Sherlock simply would not stay in his room - not even after he'd actually locked and barricaded to door from the outside - which had probably taken Sherlock less effort to get out of than it had for John to set up in the first place. He was actually contemplating tying Sherlock to the bed, simply to make sure he wouldn't move.

Right now he was it the kitchen, poking around the microwave, looking dizzy and pale (well, more so than usual). He stumbled across to the refrigerator, removing something John didn't particularly want to know the function off, collapsing over the table as he went.

For the sixth time that day John sighed and went up to Sherlock, wrapping an arm around his shoulders in support. "Come on. Let's get you to bed."


	23. Blame

Sally Donovan scowled. This was the Freak's fault. Almost everything was. He just had that kind of effect on people, what with his lovely, charming personality.

They'd concluded this particular case - or at least they'd thought they had, wrapped it up tight and with a pretty bow and now the Freak was tearing it open to see what was inside and promptly declaring everything they'd thought was wrong. They would have to release suspects and double check evidence and make press releases and public apologies and it all added up to her spending the whole of her weekend at the Yard.

Lovely. She'd been hoping to have a lie in.

Why had she taken this job again?

The Freak was also being blatantly annoying (as per usual) and airing her business with Anderson to the whole world. The first time he'd done it she'd just about died with embarrassment.

This was all his fault.

Why did Lestrade have to call him?

Why did Lestrade have to_ meet _him? After all these days the Freak just turned up to the crime scenes unannounced, contaminating the evidence and insulting them all.

And then they got the blame for tampered evidence.

It was all the Freak's fault.

And now it was starting to rain.

Somehow she knew that the Freak was to blame.


	24. Bombs

"Ever since I met you, I've almost been blown up, nearly shot, almost had my girlfriend shot in an abandoned sewer, been drugged by an insane scientist in the middle of nowhere, been attacked by what constitutes as the Chinese mafia after being mistaken for you, gotten an _ASBO_, broken in to two houses, climbed through seven windows, across nineteen roofs and down one drain pipe!" John ranted.

"Hmm," Sherlock replied mildly.

"Are you even _listening_ to me?"

"Hmm."

"No...Of course you're not."

"Aah." Sherlock pressed his nose even closer to the piece of paper he was inspecting.

John slumped. "Why do I bother?"

"I don't know, but I wish you wouldn't," Sherlock said blandly.

"Of course you do."

Sherlock waved an impatient hand in John's direction. "Quiet. I'm working."

John rolled his eyes, but shut his mouth obediently and plopped onto the sofa, picking up his laptop. "Sherlock...Have you been using my laptop again?"

"Of course."

"Where's yours?"

"In my bedroom."

"Which is much too far away for you to get yourself."

"Obviously. Now hurry up, we have a new case. Hopefully this one will be interesting." He dashed out the door and down the stairs.

John sighed as he clambered off the sofa to his feet, replacing the laptop back onto the cushions. "This time I'm betting on bombs."


	25. Bacteria

John did n_ot_ shriek as he opened the fridge. Unfortunately he was becoming accustomed to finding odd things in random places. The head in the microwave. Fingers in the fridge. Blood in the coffee pot.

He'd bought all his own household appliances to find them taken over by one of Sherlock's many experiments the minute he turned his back, whether he left them in his room or otherwise.

So he was used to a variety of strangely positioned things. He shouldn't be surprised when there was a jar labelled eye balls in one cupboard, even though it was currently empty, and the box titled gallstones shouldn't be disturbing.

It really shouldn't. He lived with _Sherlock Holmes_ after all.

But no, it never stopped surprising John when he found kneecaps in a neatly labelled tub under the stairs or a jar of teeth sitting on the window - never mind the skull on the mantelpiece.

Today it was bacteria. He'd had bacteria before - and it had multiplied interestingly until it had begun to smell and turn odd colours and Sherlock still had refused to throw it away, even after the case was finished. It was one of the more messy things John had found - not that the stench had been hard to miss.

So of course today he'd found bacteria.


	26. Bugs

Sherlock was like a child in most respects. He had little care for anyone else's feelings, never mind interpreting them in the first place. He refused things like food and sleep, even when he knew he needed them, and threw tantrums if you tired to drag him away from his work for some much needed rest.

He labelled and inspected tobacco ash, putting it into neat little dishes on the windowsill like a boy from the 40s with postage stamps. There were times when he seemed to be on a permanent sugar high, running around the streets of London at impossible times of the morning, and other times like he was on a sugar crush, lounging on the sofa for days on end.

Sometimes, quite frankly, it annoyed John.

Of course, Sherlock was Sherlock, and he wouldn't be himself if he wasn't obnoxious and difficult. But would it be too hard for him to go to bed once every two days and eat at least once a day? Why couldn't a grown man get off the sofa, rather than laze around like a couch potato teenager?

Sherlock acted far too much like a child. He desperately needed to grow up and take some responsibility. And take the tobacco ash off the windowsill.

(Preferably before the windowsill was covered in labelled bugs.)


	27. Behave

Sherlock was not at all tactful. He was extremely blunt and didn't particularly see the point in sugar coating things to spare other people's feelings.

Feelings were irrelevant - everything was irrelevant in the face of a case.

Most of the time John and Lestrade could handle Sherlock's complete inability to connect with people. Usually they could handle the sobbing widows and distressed friends, made even more upset after talking to Sherlock for just a minute.

Not today. Today he was unmanageable.

Today Sherlock was in a foul mood but also in a restless one. This combination had resulted in him helping on today's cases and reducing everyone in speaking distance to tears, revealing all of their private business to everyone.

Seven officers had already asked for the afternoon off.

All in all Sherlock was in a very uncontrollable mood today. He normally listened to John when he indicated some sort of social cue had been disregarded, or at least acknowledge it. But today he was too busy reducing a poor widow to tears.

John rushed over to intercede, passing the tearful young woman off the Lestrade, and giving Sherlock get another talk about being nice to people who were grieving.

Just then another witness arrived in the vicinity and Sherlock's eyes lit up.

John rolled his eyes and hissed, "Behave."


	28. Bus

In London it was very impractical to have a car. There was almost no way you could drive it down any more than two streets, and that was on a good day. Owning a car was just expensive and pointless.

John was used to that little fact. He'd lived in London for a long time - he was more than used to having to get a cab to go somewhere. He kind of missed it when he _didn't_ have to get one.

With Sherlock, even that was dangerous. Their first meeting _had_ involved a murderous cabbie driver after all. John had learnt, through practice, that Sherlock attracted trouble _everywhere_.

Normally though, there wasn't a problem with the cabs - their first encounter excluded. Most of them weren't murderers. There was nearly always a cab around outside 221B, so getting to a crime scene wasn't a problem.

Today though, barely a single cab had passed by 221B, all with passengers. John was starting to suspect Mycroft's interference.

They had been standing at the curb for almost fifteen minutes and Sherlock was positively vibrating with annoyance. After yet another ten minutes wait, John sighed and then stomped down the road.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked.

"I can't be bothered to wait around like this because of your brother. Let's get the bus."


	29. Boat

**I really like Irene, particularly Sherlock/Irene and can't resist writing it x I have been meaning to write a one-shot for them, but I haven't gotten round to it yet xx Please read and review xx**

Irene can't believe that after everything Sherlock is still willing to save her from execution. She's used him and betrayed him and humiliated him, and that's more than most can say.

And he's still willing to rescue her.

That says a lot about her seduction abilities.

Only it doesn't, because there _is_ something there, some underlying force of attraction. They are like magnets, attracting and repelling each other in equal measure.

But still, she is alive and he is alive and the only thing she can do is offer him dinner.

He doesn't take her up on her offer. She is slightly put out at that - but she hadn't really expected him to. Sherlock was fascinated with her, there was no doubt about that, but she doubted her would ever give in to his base instincts like that.

He tells her he has got her some clean clothes - which she needs because they things are dreadfully ratty.

He tells her he has some food and will try to get her to a shower - she needs that even more. They weren't exactly fond of feeding the prisoners and she can't remember the last time she washed her hair.

He tells her they are going by boat, and she sighs because she still has class and it is a _boat_.


	30. Born

"I have had enough!" John snapped, having had an appalling day which was only getting worse. Living in a confined space with Sherlock for any extended period of time was not a good way to lower blood pressure. Not at all. Today John had snapped, his temper going through the roof.

"Can you at least _try_ to interact nicely with other people?"

Sherlock didn't even appear to be listening to him, a fact which just further incited John's foul temper.

"Of course you can't. You _have_ to make grieving widows cry and scare off small dogs. After all Sherlock Holmes wouldn't be Sherlock Holmes if he wasn't insufferable!"

Sherlock looked up ."Would _you_ stop all _your_ insufferable shouting?"

"How am _I_ insufferable?" John gaped.

"Right now, you are particularly insufferable. I am trying to work. The lives and freedom of at least three people depend of my findings. Do try to shut up."

John gaped wordlessly. "Shut _up_?"

"Uh-hum."

John let out a long breath and counted to ten in his head. It didn't help at all. In fact, he clenched his fists tighter and restrained the urge to punch Sherlock in the face, this time not missing his nose and teeth. "Is this inability to be tolerated a new thing, or is it something you've had since you were born?"


	31. Blurred

**I know I used the word spinning loads of times but that was deliberate xx Please read and review x**

Irene Adler was _beating_ him at this particular game. As strange as it was, he quite enjoyed the chase - it made quite a change.

But now she'd injected him with something and his mind was spinning back to his teenage years, years that needed to be suppressed for fear of what Sherlock could do to himself. He had been self-destructive once. That was quite enough.

But still his head was spinning and he felt dizzy, images of fields running through his head and like a dream he imagined himself being lifted.

There was a car and a boomerang and a shot that was from an exhaust, not a gun (how rare those were) and Irene Adler in a dressing gown, her hair all done up and her lipstick not even slightly smudged.

She grinned at him cockily, putting her lips to his ear, so close he could taste her, leaving an imprint of red behind.

Everything was spinning.

There was a field and a car and Iren Adler and nothing made sense, not even the ground beneath his feet. The sky was purple and the grass was orange and everything wouldn't stop spinning. Why would it stop?

Sherlock heaved and retched, head buzzing dangerously. He slumped back onto the pillows (what pillows?) as the nausea passed and his vision blurred.


	32. Bored

"Bored!"

"Hmm."

"Bored."

John didn't even bother with a reply.

"Bored! Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored!"

John grit his teeth. "I know. You've been telling me for the last seventeen minutes."

"Exactly."

"So what are you going to do about it?"

"I am doing something about it. I'm talking to you. That counts. Or at least you told me that counts."

"In this case it doesn't. Shut up.

Sherlock huffed and curled up on the sofa. There was a almost a full thirty seconds of silence. "Bored!"

John's patience snapped, for the fifth time in as many days. "I know you are bored! You have told me so for almost twenty minutes. I don't need to hear it again! Now, if you are bored what are you going to do about it?"

"There aren't any interesting cases," Sherlock actually _whined_. John counted to five, knowing it wouldn't do much good.

"Then go shoot the wall!" John honestly didn't care.

Sherlock sighed and stood up, wandering to the window and looking out onto the street. "Mrs Hudson took away your gun. She was fed up of the holes."

"And you know where it is, don't you?"

Sherlock replied affronted, "Of course."

"So go get it."

Sherlock however did not leave the sofa, apparently too lazy. He sighed and flung himself backwards. "Bored!"


	33. BBC

**They aren't actually cancelling Silent Witness, but I needed a crime show on the BBC to use x I was originally going to use The Bill, but I was hampered by the fact that The Bill was on ITV x Please read and review x**

"No!" Sherlock cried, dramatically.

"What now?" John asked, settling into the sofa and putting his feet up.

"They're cancelling Silent Witness!"

John's eyes flickered over to Sherlock, away from the TV, and his mouth dropped open. "_What?_"

"You heard what I said."

"You know I did. I'm just wondering _why_ you said it."

"What else am I supposed to do with my nights, if I can't spend them picking out everything they're doing wrong when they investigate the crime scene!"

"It would be Cluedo all over again," John mumbled, remembering the incident and shuddering in horror.

"It was bad enough when they cancelled The Bill on ITV. That was great to pick at. They missed so many things it was hilarious!"

John, suddenly realising how much time Sherlock spent shouting insults at crime shows, realised that Sherlock would now have even more time in which to irritate the hell out of him. He dropped his head into his hands. "No," He groaned quietly.

But Sherlock heard him. "I know. What do they expect me to do with my time?

"I really don't know," John agreed, already envisioning it.

Sherlock, apparently bored already (John didn't know how he _sat _through the whole of Silent Witness, he normally struggled with five minutes), bounced up. "Come along then!"

John groaned. "I blame the BBC."


	34. Bread

"What do you eat?" John despaired. He'd been living in 221B with Sherlock for almost two weeks now and had never seen the man eat, in spite of everything else they'd done. Stopping a murderous cabbie was definitely one way to make an impression.

"I don't eat," Sherlock replied primly from the sofa. John hadn't worked out if that was his normal way of speaking, or if he just did it to annoy John.

John sighed. "You have to eat sometime!"

"Only when Mycroft or Mrs Hudson make me, and Mrs Hudson doesn't do it often. After all she's only our land lady. She doesn't interfere with our schedules."

John, even after only two weeks, already knew how wrong that statement was. He wondered briefly if Sherlock eat things like normal people, or if he had to dissect where it had come from and the type of cashier John had had first.

"There is absolutely no point in eating. It slows you down."

John groaned. He was a _doctor_. He physically couldn't let this go on - it went against his morals. Sherlock had to eat sometime, preferably sooner rather than later, or else John knew the detective wouldn't eat at all.

He sighed and made for the kitchen. "I'll make you a cup of tea, with soup and some bread."


	35. Blue

In their life of running around catching criminals, Sherlock and John had destroyed multiple things. There had been windows, car doors, lampposts, monuments. Even the occasional library foyer.

Don't even get him started on the museum - that had been a fiasco from start to finish, and had earned John an ASBO.

Now though, it was Sherlock's coat that had been destroyed. it had died well, in the middle of a much needed chase or else sudden death and a long fall. John, who had felt sorry for the utterly despondent look on his friend's face as he looked down at his coat, had gone to the specific shop, especially, to have one custom made. it had not come cheap, not had it come easy. It had cost even more since he'd asked for it rush delivered - otherwise Sherlock would go into a sulk, and that was no good for anyone.

And Sherlock was, quite frankly, being rude.

"John..." He dragged out.

"Yes Sherlock?" He replied through gritted teeth.

"My coat. My poor, poor coat."

"I've bought you a replacement. It's not my fault you don't like it."

Sherlock just gave him that look that said he was being intentionally stupid. "I don't know why you couldn't have just told me."

"It is _fine_!"

"It's not black! It's navy blue."


	36. Brolly

Sherlock sneezed. John rolled his eyes.

"I warned you, you know."

Sherlock pouted slightly, shivering inside his massive coat and curling up slightly.

"But no, illness is for stupid people. Clever people can't get ill. Genius' are indestructible."

Sherlock looked ready to snap back a retort but sneezed in the attempt. He settled for sliding back on the sofa, pulling a blanket over himself, and lying his hands either side of his temple, attempting to think through the raging headache.

John couldn't help but feel a sliver of sympathy. "I'll fetch you some hot cocoa. My mum used to do that for me when I had a cold."

Sherlock nodded absentmindedly, for once not making a snarky comment, instead choosing to ignore John, reaching into the recesses of his brain to solve his current case.

John did as he'd said, having cocoa on the side of the table within five minutes. Sherlock grunted something that may have been thank you, but being Sherlock was probably something along the lines of bored.

He pulled the blankets up over his head and wriggled like some sort of demented worm.

John couldn't help chuckle at the sight.

Sherlock made a noise of protest.

"Come on Sherlock. It was your own fault. You were the one who went out in the rain without a brolly."


	37. Black

**This one is from Moriarty's POV :)**

He watches Sherlock stand there, gun raised, something like confusion, or maybe even satisfaction in his face. Terror for his little pet of course - Doctor John Watson, and something like peace now that he knows, at last, what - or rather _who_ - Moriarty is.

Sherlock, as per usual, looks barely ruffled by the events of the day, but John looks tired, strained, _worried_. Jim can't really blame him. If he moves an each, Jim will have him blown to smithereens. Nervous is perhaps something good to be feeling right now.

Sherlock's hands never shake, not when he raises the gun, in spite of the bomb currently wrapped lovingly around his pet.

He stares and his eyes are deducing everything, everything that Jim is letting him see. He scans everything, a dangerous predator, not yet knowing that Jim is far more dangerous than Sherlock could ever hope to be, because Sherlock has Doctor John Watson to act as his moral compass when he fails with human interaction.

Jim doesn't think that Sherlock's even noticed it yet. Maybe he won't - not ever.

But John dislikes shooting people, even when they're in the wrong. He's a soldier, not a killer, no matter what Jim's done.

So he isn't worried when Sherlock raises the gun in his dark suit, black on black.


	38. Beaver

"_Why?_" John asked the heavens, watching Sherlock ferret around warily, peering anxiously at the ground and scurrying around, nose pressed to the ground.

"Ooh... This is interesting," Sherlock said manically, dashing around yet again.

"How is it?" John wondered, expecting to be ignored - as he was. Instead Sherlock moved on, very excitedly, reminding John of a small child in a toy store on a sugar high.

Sherlock was now attempting to lick a tree. John exchanged a disturbed look with Lestrade who looked ready to film the moment, as he did with most.

"I haven't seen him like this in years!" Lestrade exclaimed, watching the detective his eyes wide.

"When was that?" John asked, suspecting the answer.

"When he was getting off the cocaine."

John nodded, having guessed correctly.

Sherlock was now attempting to _scale_ the tree. John looked at him curiously and even Lestrade seemed more unnerved.

"Sherlock..." John asked. "What _are_ you doing?" Once again, he was ignored.

Sherlock hopped back onto the ground and started to stride off. "Come on. We're looking for a man, about thirty five, left-handed, six foot one, feet size nine, blond. Lives alone, one child, divorced." John had given up asking how Sherlock knew these things, knowing he'd only get a long winded answer and a smug Sherlock "Fond of beavers."


	39. Boots

"I hate you sometimes," John growled from where he was tied to a tree.

"Uh-huh."

"It's your fault we're currently tied to trees."

"Maybe you are, but I'm not," Sherlock said, striding away from the tree and nosing around on the forest floor, yet again.

"When did you do that?" John spluttered, looking an odd mixture between confused and annoyed.

"When he attempted to tie me up. Though technically speaking he never tied me up at all."

"And you didn't feel the urge to get up before now?"

"Why? It was quite a comfy tree. I quite liked it there."

"Well I don't!"

"That is a shame John. You must learn to appreciate the finer things in life."

"Untie me and I'll show you what I'm going to appreciate."

Sherlock still didn't even turn to look at him, instead striding deeper into the forest.

"Sherlock! Hello!"

Sherlock sighed, and walked back to untie the doctor.

"Thank you," John said bitingly, looking exceedingly irritated.

"Your welcome."

"Now, hurry up. Our murderer is getting away!"

"Who is our murderer? I was too busy being unconscious for that bit."

"He is right handed, with dark blonde hair, a former policeman and alcoholic, divorced, lives in the North West of London and is currently wearing an atrocious , though easily traceable, pair of leather boots.


	40. Boiling

"Come on!" Sherlock cried, stumbling out onto the street. John eyed him worriedly - the consulting detective had ignored his orders to stay in bed, even with how ill he must be feeling - he looked terrible. John was getting increasingly concerned with Sherlock's current disequilibrium, this was rather unlike the younger man's usually sure-footed gait.

"You should be in bed!"

Sherlock snorted derisively. "I'm working. For once we have an interesting case!"

John nodded disbelievingly. The case didn't _look_ interesting. In fact, in comparison to some of their other escapades, it looked positively dull.

"You could pass for Rudolph at a distance," John told him. Sherlock glared, his red nose distracting John more than slightly from his look.

"There's a case to solve!" Sherlock shouted hoarsely.

"You have a cold, Sherlock. You need to be in bed."

"I'll be fine," Sherlock insisted, stumbling further down the street.

John sighed and rolled his eyes skyward. "You need to be in bed."

"I am unwell, not deaf. You do not need to repeat yourself."

"See, even you're admitting you're ill."

"But not so ill as to miss this case."

John shot him a look and put a hand to the younger man's forehead. "Don't even try to tell me you're not sick. You could fry an egg on this - you're boiling!2


	41. Breathing

Molly Hooper is very odd. He knows now that she likes him - and it certainly explains some of her more bizarre behaviours over the last few years, doesn't it?

She is a nice girl, even Sherlock will admit to that, a bit of a pushover. Not particularly interesting.

Or not until she sees what John doesn't, and he realises he isn't hiding it from her.

He looks sad, she says.

She's wrong.

He knows what's going to happen - that's why he asked for her help with this plan, because even Sherlock Holmes couldn't manage something like this on his own. Because Molly sees what others don't, because they don't see Molly.

She _is_ his friend, but he's not surprised that it's taken so long to realise that he cares about her. She's always there, hovering in the background. She's become _part_ of the background.

And she's the only one who knows he's still alive. Not even Mycroft knows, he will do, but not yet.

There is something about Molly Hooper, something odd and secretive but at the same time a complete open book to him. She is an enigma sometimes.

Because how is it that she knows he's still alive when the rest of the people he cares about are crying and grieving and wishing he could be breathing.


	42. Blazing

Irene slides to the floor at the side of him, her eyes dark and unfathomable, her hair falling softly around her face in a way that makes her seem a far cry from the unyielding dominatrix Sherlock knows she is. She sits up on her heels, leaning towards him.

"If this was the very last night, would you have dinner with me?"

His hand slides over her wrist feeling the thrum of her pulse, telling him that she is just as affected by this as he is, that she's not just _playing_. His fingers curl around her arms and slide upwards and his own heartbeat quickens as hers does.

They stare into each other's eyes, darkened with passion and something neither of them have ever felt before, flickering in the firelight. Sherlock cannot read her and for the first time he doesn't _care_.

Then there are footsteps on the stairs and Mrs Hudson's voice shouting, and Irene shifts backwards, something like regret in her eyes. She says something but Sherlock doesn't know what, too busy watching every one of her movements and wondering what could have been.

He doesn't know, and he's afraid to find out. But the moment is lost, and the atmosphere is disturbed. They sit in silence for the rest of the evening, eyes dark and fire blazing.


	43. Blanket

Lestrade scowled at Sherlock, who, unsurprisingly, was being deliberately unhelpful. "You don't go running off like that!" He said sternly, as though he was Sherlock's father.

Sherlock frowned mildly at him, but didn't give a proper reaction knowing that the lack of response would incense Lestrade further.

"God dammit Sherlock! What if we hadn't been following the killer? You could have been killed!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at Lestrade's dramatics. It hadn't been that close - it was his job to notice that, not Lestrade's. Lestrade about snarled with fury.

"Don't do it again Sherlock," Lestrade told him despite knowing that it was for the twentieth time and knowing that Sherlock was no more likely to listen to him this time than he had the last few. "Please." God help him, he'd resorted to begging. Luckily John's influence meant that Sherlock didn't instantly leap on the weakness as he would have a year's previous.

"If you'll excuse me Lestrade," Sherlock said, getting ready to stride off.

Lestrade frowned. "Sherlock... Sherlock... We still need to talk about the killer. What he said to you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes again. "He didn't _say_ anything. He bragged. Don't ask anything else."

"Sherlock..."

Sherlock strode off. "Can't you ask me later? I'm in shock. Don't you remember what it means if you've got a blanket?"


	44. Balance

Most of the time Sherlock moved with a predatory grace that was, frankly, intimidating. John had seen it the first time they'd met, the fluidity in his movements and the smoothness of his stride, betraying a confidence not often seen. Sherlock was extremely confident in himself and his deductions and showed it. Most of the time it led to people wanting to punch him - even John on occasion.

Unlike now. This Irene Adler knocked Sherlock off balance. He was unsteady on his feet, like a newborn lamb learning to walk.

It was something that almost disturbed John, to see Sherlock's faith in his own deductions shaken by this voracious woman who was so used to being at the top of the food chain. John didn't like it, not at all.

In some ways Sherlock was still like a child, including in fields of human interactions. He didn't need to be belittled, of sorts, by this _woman_ just because, although their intellects seemed to follow similar paths, she found herself _knowing what people liked_. Sherlock was no worse off for not knowing this.

John didn't know why he disliked Miss Adler so much - he _wasn't_ jealous, no matter what she or anyone else might say. He supposed it was because it unnerved him so much to see Sherlock off balance.


	45. Books

During the Blind Banker case John had seen more books than he ever had elsewhere in his life - with the exception, perhaps, of in a library and, surprisingly, he did not frequent them often.

Sherlock had very limited patience for books - if it were fiction it was too ridiculous, if it was non-fiction he knew it already, and if it was a murder mystery...

Cluedo had been bad enough. John had no wish to see the tantrum Sherlock would throw should the murderer not be who he had earlier deduced.

But, from time to time, John caught Sherlock reading a book, a look of abstract concentration and fascination etched onto his face and John knew he was catching a glimpse of the little boy who had once dreamed of becoming a pirate.

Unsurprisingly, Sherlock did not read often.

Which is why he was so astonished when Sherlock picked up the habit - he would have thought that Sherlock considered it unnecessary and time consuming, as well as _boring_.

And then John found out it was for a case. He really shouldn't have been surprised.

The door bell rang, for the fourth time that hour. He rolled his eyes and got up.

"Sherlock!" He called, as he went to answer it. "There's another man at the door with some books!"


	46. Before

Today, Sherlock was being manic.

His mania was only encouraged by the excitement of their current case - a brutal triple murder, with neither the murderer or the murder weapon anywhere to be found. Apparently, it was the best case they'd had in weeks. John had expressed his condolences.

Sherlock had _grinned_, bounced up and down, and made one of the widows cry. John had quickly led him away before said widow's brother punched him in the face.

Sherlock, being Sherlock, didn't appreciate this timely intervention at all. He just sulked for a moment, before abruptly switching moods (as per usual) and jumping straight back into the case.

John sighed quietly, getting up to follow him.

He was getting too old for this.

And not even army training could have prepared him for something like Sherlock Holmes. Nothing could've.

He started to think he was learning something about keeping Sherlock under control. And then Sherlock pulled a stunt like this to prove him wrong.

Lestrade told him he was lucky. Sherlock had been much better since he'd met John that he'd been before. John sincerely hoped otherwise, for Lestrade's sake, but on days like this he believed the Detective Inspector.

Across from him, one widow punched Sherlock cleanly in the face.

John sighed. "I'm so glad I didn't know you before."


	47. Burning

Sherlock supposed that, despite everything, Moriarty had won after all.

Sherlock Holmes was dead to the world, his reputation destroyed. He didn't mind that - he'd never cared what other people thought of him and he'd made sure of that through his carefully cultivated persona of sociopath.

But people that were closer, people like John and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, he cared what they thought of him.

But he cared about the fact that they were alive more. He could die in disgrace and he could've have actually died and as long as they were safe he couldn't care.

As John had said, 'friends protect people'.

He hadn't been wrong.

He _had_ protected them, jumping from the roof so they could carry on living when he wasn't. He cared too much.

What had happened to him?

He had started bother.

And now that he couldn't it h_urt_. He couldn't do anything to comfort John, so affected by his death. He couldn't intercede in the disciplinary action Lestrade was facing (although Mycroft could).

He couldn't do anything. It was a train wreck, something he couldn't do anything about but something he couldn't look away from.

Moriarty had said he was going to burn the heart out of him.

He had been right.

Only his heart was doing much more than simply burning.


	48. 221B

**I know this isn't technically beginning with B, but it's close enough x**

Taylor Brown had only very recently moved to London. He'd moved into a flat, which was different to the house he was used to, and he wasn't living with his parents anymore.

He was slightly worried, because they were so far away and also because he'd heard things about living in London – the usual horror stories you heard any big city, guns and knife crime. Large gangs hovering on street corners and petty theft happening at every corner shop.

But when he'd finished unpacking the sound of the gun-shot blasted down the street.

Taylor jumped.

There was another blast, followed by a third in quick succession. He peered out of the window, but couldn't see anything.

From further on down Baker Street came angry shouts. Taylor had thought this part of London was supposed to be good, not with gangs and abusive violence.

Well, he'd been wrong before.

Maybe London hadn't been as good a thought as he'd hoped. He hoped that moving away from his parents would give him some independence.

Right now he hoped they could be here with him.

He ended up phoning the police after another flurry of shots.

It was strange how disinterested the person on the other end of the line sounded as soon as he told them that the noise was coming from 221B.


	49. Brave

**Mycroft is difficult, and I probably wrote him horribly wrong x But please read and review anyway x**

Mycroft looked at him somewhat sympathetically, a odd look that didn't belong on the older Holmes' face. John wondered what it was for.

"Not many people stick around for long."

John was lost, but surprised at how blunt Mycroft appeared to be speaking.

"With Sherlock. Not many people stay for as long as you have."

John knew that already - even he knew how difficult the detective was to get along with, but he was surprised that Mycroft was talking about it, never mind the one to bring it up.

"Good thing _I'm _not going anywhere then, isn't it?" Sherlock didn't need _those _people, and he'd figured that out a long time ago. They were too petty, too _boring_.

"People that stay get hurt."

John knew that as well. But he'd joined the army.

It was the kind of thing he signed up for, more so when he agreed to stay in 221B.

"I'm not normally as blunt as this - you know that - but it's brave."

"Brave?"

"To stick around. Especially after the pool incident. Most people would call you crazy, but the thought of leaving never even crossed your mind."

Of course it hadn't, and his affronted expression told Mycroft so.

"As I said," He nodded, seeming human to John for the first time. He continued softly, "Brave."


	50. Blacklisted

"Could you just _try_ to be a little more polite to people," John hissed to Sherlock.

The detective just looked honestly confused at the idea. "Why?"

"Because people tend to be nice to you if you're nice to them."

"I don't _want_ people to be nice to me," Sherlock insisted. That was something he thought he'd established quite a long time ago.

"I can tell," John muttered under his breath, before continuing louder. "It tends to get a positive response out of someone faster, so the case gets solved faster." Cases tended to tempt Sherlock into doing things.

"But it's tiring and unnecessary," Sherlock replied.

"It'll be necessary for my health soon enough. I can't take another day like this!"

Sherlock blinked innocently and John restrained the urge to throttle him, clenching his fists as the urge passed. It was almost frequent these days, something that couldn't be good for his health.

Despite that, Sherlock did appear to _try_ to be civil at the next crime scene they arrived at.

At the second he seemed to get bored and went back to his lovely charming self. In this case it was a robbery at a restaurant and Sherlock managed to insult the proprietor and his wife.

Sherlock looked unfazed.

John death glared at his back. "And you wonder why we're blacklisted..."


	51. Biometrics

Sherlock wonders why people act so astounded when he figures things out at a crime scene. It's not like he's added anything new, or that he's materialised something out of thin air. All of the things he sees are already there, but no one else ever seems to see them.

Things like height (_can't you tell from the angle the knife went in_) and gender (_the faint odour of perfume in the air_) they aren't too bad with, most of the time.

It's the other things that they miss - even the obvious (_the murderer smokes, can't you see the tobacco ash over there)_.

It's the kind of obliviousness that makes him loathe to be around people, when he has to dumb himself down so that they can at least understand every third word that comes out of his mouth. They can't see it so he has to explain himself after everything, even if John reactions are usually quite flattering (in the beginning). It gets so _dull_.

There is another case today, some young woman found dead. Sherlock wonders why they called him in - it's so obvious even Donovan could have solved it.

But apparently not.

They ask questions again, asking how he could possibly _know_ that just from the crime scene.

He sighs. "It's not difficult, only simple biometrics."


	52. Baker

**I'm not sure where this came from, only that the rhyme got into my head randomly and wouldn't get out x Please read and review :)**

Some people were really sick. Lestrade hated crime scenes like this, where people died in obvious agony because someone felt they had to right to take their life away from them, whatever their reason may be in their own twisted head - or maybe without reason.

The first man had been found in the bathtub, having been left for days. Sherlock had quickly (and rudely) pointed out several identifying marks that would help identify the killer but they hadn't been able to catch him before he'd carried out this murder, this time on a young man working as a butcher.

He too had been found in the bathtub.

Even Sherlock had been baffled, not that he would admit it. Lestrade had known him for long enough to be able to tell.

Strangely enough (or perhaps not) it had been John that had helped solve the case.

"So we've got a butcher and a candlestick maker, both found dead."

John started. "Did you say butcher and candlestick maker?"

Lestrade nodded.

"And they were found in the bathtub?"

"Do you know something?" Lestrade asked sharply.

"The next victim will be a baker," John said without doubt.

Lestrade stared in confusion.

"It's like the rhyme." He sang slightly, "Three men in a tub...The butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker. It's definitely a baker."


	53. By

Sometimes, well most of the time, John wondered how Mycroft and Sherlock had gotten to the state they were from two brothers who had argued and played just like any other siblings. The kind of siblings where one wanted to be a pirate and the other told him to stop climbing on the furniture.

John can't see any hint of that now, not with Sherlock pretending that he can't feel anything and not knowing if Mycroft actually _can_ feel anything.

Needless to say, he wonders how the brothers came to this.

Neither of them seems willing to spill the beans, but it must have been bad. Or maybe it wasn't - both brothers tended to overreact when something concerned private matters or anything that involved feelings.

There was no way or telling - and neither of them were willing to talk.

But John was still curious about how they manage so he asked Mycroft anyway and the answer he gets surprised him, even though it shouldn't have.

Mycroft gave something like a sad smile and actually shrugged, the least professional thing John has ever seen the man do (with the exception of losing his temper to hiss at Sherlock to put his trousers on in the middle Buckingham Palace). "We're brothers John. It's what family does, isn't it? We get by."


	54. Boil

Sometimes John wonders how Sherlock and Mycroft can be so similar and yet different. They are brothers of fire and ice, of hatred and love, all wrapped into something in a sharp suit and a masquerade of not caring.

Sherlock, despite outward appearances, is like fire, burning. You don't want to provoke him for to incite the wrath of the flames is to get burned. Irene Adler knows that, what with the games she played with his heart and the retribution she received.

Donovan and Anderson know it as well, and even Lestrade on occasion, the sting of Sherlock's biting wit and the fury it can leave in its wake.

He is like his brother sometimes though, as unbreakable as ice and just as easily shattered.

Mycroft wears an armour of ice, freezing everyone out and away before they can get close. The people closest to him are Sherlock and Anthea (or whatever name she favours today).

If you don't let people get in you can't get burned and that's a mistake even Sherlock makes.

The eldest Holmes knows the folly of pretending that you don't care, how deep it cuts when people (people like Moriarty) find out otherwise and use it against him. Even the life of his little brother is the price.

At some temperatures even ice can boil.


	55. Believe

John didn't know what he was supposed to do anymore. All sense had been flung off the roof with Sherlock, as well as all feeling.

He recognised his own feelings as shock, not that he could do anything about it, no matter how hard he tried.

He'd been going for a walk, deep in the back alleyways of London, feeling closer to Sherlock here than anywhere else - with the obvious exception of 221B, which he couldn't bear right now.

Without even realising it he found himself using some of Sherlock's old tricks to deduce the last person to use this solitary walkway. It had been a teenage male, in trainers and carrying a can of yellow spray paint, and a pang of nostalgia ran through him remembering a young Chinese girl and her brother, a lotus flower in a blood stained hand and an ASBO.

He turned the corner and his breath caught in his throat.

Large yellow spray paint declared 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes'.

John couldn't breathe, looking at the words scrawling messily across an abandoned brick wall in the middle of nowhere.

"I believe in Sherlock Holmes," he whispered, finally saying the words that had been whispered underground out loud. A surge of hope ran through him.

"Sherlock." John felt a shiver tremble through him. "I believe."


	56. Below

Sherlock Holmes did _not_ like things he couldn't explain. He was a man of science, always ready with an explanation for anything, and he hated anything other. Things were either possible or they weren't and he hated people who dithered.

Which was why he was currently very upset that he'd landed in the eighteenth century - or at least that's what he'd deduced so far.

Yes, some time before the public distribution of toilets.

So, needless to say, he was currently very worked up, without John to shut him up and in another century. He undoubtedly deserved the punch one man gave him after Sherlock insulted his weight and his drinking habits.

No, he didn't like it here at all. It just simply wasn't possible.

Time travel _wasn't_ possible.

He continued to insist that to himself, getting ever more would up until he strode not-so briskly into a man in a tweed suit and fez, who looked him curiously up and down before running off again.

Sherlock shook his head.

There were more things wrong with this century than he-d thought, first thing him being there (if he actually was, and wasn't just hallucinating).

Yes, there were, he thought as he suddenly got very wet and unpleasant smelling.

A woman called from above, her cry far too late, "Look out below!"


	57. Bin

John knew that Sherlock had previously had an issue with illicit substances.

However, that was now in the past and he was fed up of Lestrade and Co. turning up in their flat at inconvenient times and scouring through his things, using the words 'drugs bust' as an excuse. Just because Sherlock was refusing to be helpful didn't give them the right to dig around under his bed.

John had gotten over that when he was fourteen and found Harry under there.

It was always very ill-timed, normally because the pair of them were halfway through finding out who was the murderer and various clues would be strewn over their flat and misplaced by nosy police officers.

Not to mention how much more grumpy than usual Sherlock would be once they'd left. Sherlock was bad enough on a normal day - John really didn't need anyone to inspire anything else.

Like now, for instance, with Anderson fishing around in the kitchen and opening the kettle.

"That's blood."

Sherlock scowled darkly. "That's obvious. It says so on the label. It also wasn't being exposed to air. That's on the label too. Or haven't you learnt to read yet?"

John sighed. Why did Anderson have to do this? "It'll be fine Sherlock."

"No, it won't. Now it's got to go in the bin!"


	58. Bar

Sometimes (well, most of the time) looking after Sherlock is just too much. It's like trying to babysit a two year old and one that knows they're being minded and really hates it.

The kind that plays up just to annoy the babysitter.

And what's even worse that even on those days when he's not trying to annoy him on purpose, Sherlock still manages to find a way to do it accidently.

Sometimes he snaps.

On those days he goes down the pub, sometimes by himself, sometimes with other people.

Most of the time it's Lestrade, because they're both equally infuriated by the detective.

It sounds like a joke.

Most of the time the pair of them get outrageously drunk and John crashes on Greg's sofa and refuses to go back until his hangover is gone, because God knows otherwise Sherlock will just make it ten times worse. Sherlock never tries to call him and when John walks back into the flat he'll be talking to John like he's never noticed the other man was gone.

Lestrade just smiles slightly and offers to buy him another drink. John nearly always says yes, especially when Sherlock texts him halfway through the evening, reminding him not to get drunk. John snorts derisively.

A babysitting soldier and a detective inspector walk into a bar.


	59. Bees

**This one just came to me, I hope you like it x Please read and review xx**

Until now John has always thought Sherlock as asexual. He'd seen many naive girls throw themselves at Sherlock after taking one glance at his cheekbones and hair, only to turn away the second the detective opened his mouth.

The same had happened with a few men as well.

For some of them even his attitude was not enough to turn them off - see Molly Hooper as a class example, who (for reasons John would never understand) adored Sherlock, no matter how badly he treated her, whether accidently or otherwise.

But the look in Sherlock's eyes right now is telling John just how wrong he is. Something about Irene Adler has gotten under Sherlock's skin, something is picking at him and his brain won't stop until it has solved the mystery that is The Woman.

Even John doesn't recognise it for what it really is, no matter how much he normally understands Sherlock. Women are not a field he understands anyway, even less when the detective is involved.

And he's never seen anything like Irene and Sherlock, the way that they react to each other. It's flirting, but on a whole new playing field, and one that even Sherlock doesn't even know.

But John sighs anyway. Next thing he knows he'll be talking to Sherlock about the birds and the bees.


	60. Between

Detective Inspector Lestrade had known Sherlock, and by extension Mycroft, Holmes for a very long time - much longer than anyone else had.

The younger Holmes was impulsive, and brash and arrogant, confident in his ability to deduce almost any situation in a matter of seconds.

Mycroft, on the other hand, was cold and blank, only rarely showing his emotions.

It made for interesting confrontations between the two, watching them battle it out in a show of wits - particularly at a crime scene, even if that wasn't the best place for such a competition. Neither of them displayed any kind of brotherly affection for each other, with the exception of the gravest of circumstances - Sherlock's apparent suicide being one of the occasions.

They were harsh and conflicting, even as John tried to interfere into the fray. Lestrade never dared, his own personal ties to both of them different but somehow equal in the same. He was too personally invested to do anything but make (as Sherlock called them) 'stupid' comments and be casually insulted. One memorable occasion was the unusual case at Dartmoor, brought to him by an exasperated Mycroft.

The Holmes brothers were fire and ice, locked in a never ending battle for which there would be ne winner anyway.

And Lestrade was stuck somewhere in the middle.


	61. Brat

**This is for Second Daughter of Eve, I hope you all like it xx**

John couldn't withhold his laughter at the sight that was Sherlock scowling at a five year old girl and said girl frowning back. Sherlock moved closer, so she wrinkled her nose to deepen the frown lines in her forehead, instead looking like Sherlock smelt disgusting.

"Tell me, now!"

Sherlock never was one for patience, not even with small children. He didn't even use that voice that most people use when confronted with children under seven or small dogs.

"No," she replied defiantly, tossing back her hair, some of it whipping into Sherlock's mouth. He looked confused for a moment, before becoming disgusted and spitting the mass out of his mouth, looking violated.

The girl let out a tiny giggle, before stifling it with her hand.

Sherlock scowled at her and she broke out into laughter. This time John couldn't help himself and joined her.

"Stop it!" Sherlock glowered at the pair of them, pouting.

Neither of them did until the girl abruptly turned and flounced off, probably to annoy elsewhere.

"We'll have to find her later," John decided.

"No we won't," Sherlock disagreed. "I'm never going near her again."

John laughed and then shook his head. "You'll have to at some point."

Sherlock turned to him, aghast. He spat out, "No I won't, I won't go anywhere near that little brat!"


	62. Beg

**I'm not sure where this came from, but I still love the pairing and what with the season 3 trailer now out...**

Irene smiles, her crimson mouth quirking up at the edges, even as her eyes darken and she looks up at him through her lashes.

Sherlock just looks back at her, the two of them holding each other's gaze, almost as though they were holding a staring contest. John feels the urge to excuse himself from the room and hide somewhere far away, far away from this tension and the looks passing between the two geniuses, not understood by anyone else.

Somehow the two of them fit, like a jigsaw, or maybe like scales, the good to balance out the darkness, the seduction to balance the asexuality. They fit seamlessly, an entire conversation passing between them, unspoken to anyone else.

Sherlock looks mildly frightened by the odd understanding he has with this woman, _the_ Woman. He does not often have meaningful personal attachments after all, only acquaintances.

And Irene does not have feelings, only power and control, so that as few people as possible can control her.

Both of them change though, in each other's presence.

Their unspoken conversation seems to come to an end, as Irene's eyes soften and even Sherlock's mouth curls up in the smile. John doesn't know what he's supposed to do with this.

When she speaks it is gentle, but a promise. "I _will_ make you beg."


	63. Background

**Sorry that I've not updated this in a while, I've been really busy lately xx I hope you all like this chapter and it makes up for it xx**

Sherlock Holmes knows that Molly Hooper is not the smartest of people - that would be himself - but he'd thought her fairly intelligent, or at least intelligent enough to do some background research on anyone that tried to enter her private property, thought to be friendly or otherwise (he always did, no matter that John thought it overly excessive. It had saved their lives multiple times, so he wasn't about to go and stop.)

It seemed that she wasn't. Instead she'd allowed a mass murderer and highly intellectual killer into her home and probably asked him if he wanted tea (or coffee as was obviously Molly's preferred choice).

Molly didn't even seem to realise what had happened, judging by the stupefied look on her face and Sherlock enlightened her to exactly what her ex-boyfriend was currently doing.

Sherlock couldn't help himself and was getting wound up, starting to shout, in spite of the dejected look on Molly's face. Normally it wouldn't bother him, but John had been trying to teach him to be more considerate of other people's emotions.

Instead it just led him on to greater heights, until he resisted the temptation to collapse into the nearest chair. He had not shouted like this in years.

"And this is what you get for not checking up on someone's background..."


	64. Blog

As John likes to say, Sherlock solves crimes and forgets his pants and John blogs about both of them. The blogging wasn't exactly what his therapist had ordered, but it was close enough and it was helping. Sometimes he just used it as a diary, to keep track of what nonsense had happened that day and most of the time, reading back, he couldn't believe it. There were thousands of people looking at his blog and commenting, some of them really putting his life into perspective, or at least making him question his sanity.

It was true though, how many people would continue to room with a self-confessed high functioning sociopath, especially one with an IQ like Sherlock's.

Most people would have gotten out at the first hurdle.

For some reason John had decided to stay.

And there were times when he questioned that decision, times like now. Times when he found blood congealed in the kettle and heads in the fridge and he was up until three o'clock playing the violin as loud as he could.

In this case it was body parts hidden around the flat and Sherlock leaping around in some kind of interpretive dance, solving at least three cases in his head and talking to the skull on the mantelpiece.

Yes, this one was for the blog.


	65. Blackhead

**Hmm, not sure about this one, but I really like Irene Adler (as you can probably tell) and wanted to do one really focused on her xx**

Irene Adler was in a profession where appearance meant everything, where control was everything. It was a profession that required you to be primped and polished, almost to breaking point, with not a hair out of place. She could never arrive anywhere looking dishevelled, unless it was carefully styled, with lots of lipstick and hairspray.

She spent more of her time naked than in clothes, some days, wandering the house in her heels and lipstick, keeping in character because you never knew when you might need to.

And Irene had _become_ the woman, her persona, even when she was simply curled up in an armchair in her dressing gown.

She was good at what she did, _even_ when the dishevelled looks weren't so planned. It was something Sherlock had found himself attracted to, the confidence that she had in her own skin, and in her sexuality, and in her understanding of other people.

As she always said, she knew what they _liked_. And she was good at it.

But still, she was required to look her best, whether or not she was going to use her brain to outsmart her opponent, instead of her wiles.

Which is why she was screaming. For the first time since she was a teenager (and it had only dared to once), she had a blackhead.


End file.
